Old friends gather in familiar places with
Faces not yet too weary from the harsh
Winter of age, but I have left that
Place and many others and wouldn't
Recognize their voices if they spoke my name.
There can be no more talks of lunchroom legs
Or untapped ideals, no more naive solos
Or gawking at stringed idols; the session
Was stopped so abruptly by an
Immeasurable yet measurable thing.
Our once wide river has split into
Thin vein lives that carry different
Colored cells to very different organs.
One is spitting fire and skinning his dinner,
The other blowing smoke and contemplating winter.
We've come full circle on a half circle moon,
With the sun setting quickly but waiting
To return on a whim or a dare.
We might split hairs for the rest of our lives,
Wrestling with the idea of whether or not to care.
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